Dinner?
by BenedictedCumberbabe221
Summary: Post-Reichenbach fic. The return of Sherlock Holmes. A short fic, where John finds himself unable to live life without Sherlock anymore. I hope you enjoy it and please review.


_First Johnlock fic. Post-Reichenbach. Hope you enjoy and please leave a review. _

* * *

Little scatterings of memories passed through his mind, like the shards of a once unbroken pane of glass. They were just as sharp too. They flashed by, incomplete, hurtful, taunting. He wanted to forget; he wanted so much to forget but he just couldn't. And if he was in any way honest with himself, he wouldn't.

He limped to his armchair, sloping upon his crutch as he went. Sighing, he sat himself down. Before him was a leather chair; it was layered with dust as it had been sat unused for a long while. John Watson recalled the time when Lestrade had visited, just to check on things, and John had inadvertently yelled at him when the detective inspector made to settle in the comforts of the black armchair. John had apologised profusely following, but Lestrade waved these apologies away and took to sit in a different chair. What John didn't see though was the worried look in Detective Lestrade's eyes as he turned away. That was the last time John saw Greg Lestrade.

As he sat, pondering the past, John heard a door click shut, followed by the shuffling footsteps of Mrs Hudson ascending the staircase. There had been days where he'd heard these same sounds, and had scampered to the stairs, hoping, just hoping. But Mrs Hudson would always be there, smiling at him, however the smile never quite reached her eyes. Her eyes were always shining with concern and sadness. She felt wretched for kindling John's hope and in a moment stealing it away again. But the days of hope hadn't lasted long.

'Hello, love!' Mrs Hudson chirruped, as she came in, stocking John's fridge with a few bits and bobs. John hummed in reply. 'Do you want me to make you a cuppa'?' she queried kindly.

John turned and gave a half-hearted smile.

'Uh, no thank you Mrs Hudson.' She nodded and made to leave, knowing John wasn't in the mood to chat. He hardly ever was nowadays.

'I've put in a few microwave meals and some more milk,' she pointed to the fridge as she left.

'Thank you!' John called after her. He got up and limped to the kitchen, rethinking the proposition of a cup of tea. He switched on the kettle and withdrew a cup from the cupboard. Opening the fridge, he took out the milk. He stopped for a moment. Remembering. _Again_. It was silly; John actually _missed _the severed heads, the fingers and the random body parts. John slammed the fridge door, grinding his teeth in frustration. He didn't want to remember. He should move out. He'd told himself to, many a time. But he knew in his heart, that he would never bring himself to do it. He was still holding out for the day; the day when everything was back to normal, when Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, was back in his life again.

He just couldn't let go… wouldn't let go.

John slammed the milk down upon the side, and hobbled off, discarding the tea. His feet took him down the hall, to what had become his sanctuary. Sherlock's room. Left the same way since Sherlock had…_jumped_. John shut the door, took a look at the room, and gave himself over to the pain. He crumpled upon the bed, sobbing into the pillows, succumbing to the darkness.

* * *

The day was grey. Dull. Lifeless. Beyond the edge, the pavement was free of the bustle of pedestrians. _Good. _John now understood how Sherlock felt that day. Looking down, looking to his death. John was upon the roof of Bart's, stood in the exact position Sherlock had been three years ago.

He had waited. John Watson had waited for the world's only consulting detective. He just couldn't quite comprehend that Sherlock Holmes, smartest man in the room, could have truly committed suicide that day. Of course people, stupid people, would say it was because he was a fraud, but John knew that he wasn't. He knew.

'_I'm a fake.'  
'Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, would you do this for me?'  
'It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.' _

_'Goodbye John.' _

Upon the rooftop, John awoke from the memories to find himself on his knees, weeping. He needed Sherlock. He couldn't wait any longer. Taking a few minutes to collect himself, he stood again shakily. He threw down the crutch, taking a steady step up. He stared, unseeing, at the London horizon. A tear crept down his cheek. He closed his eyes, spread his arms out, just as his friend had done that day.

'_John_.'  
'I'm coming Sherlock,' John whispered, and he let himself fall.

* * *

Then John felt something catch him, turn him around and pull him close. It was soft and warm. There was a hand at the back of his head, and he felt a head resting upon his. Then the hands pulled John back. Not exactly how he'd imagined falling to his death would be. But he knew that smell. He'd done it. He'd found him.

'John,' the voice was deep, and sad. And agonizingly familiar. 'Look at me.'

The hands were holding John's face. John opened his eyes slowly. 'Sherlock.'  
They were still on the rooftop. But Sherlock was there. John stepped backward. Sherlock let his hands drop. 'Sherlock?'  
Sherlock stood there, the coat twisting in the wind. His lips twitched into a small smile.

'I'm alive?' John questioned breathlessly. Then looked at Sherlock, properly. 'Sherlock? What…' John stuttered in bewilderment. The one person he'd waited for, he'd needed, he was there, but John didn't know what to do, or say. 'You were dead. You left me for three years.'

'I know-' but Sherlock's excuses were cut short by John's fist connecting with his cheekbone.

'That. Sherlock, does not even come close to how much pain you put me through,' John seethed. Sherlock stood there, placid as ever, a red mark already flourishing upon his cheek. Immediately John felt ashamed of lashing out, and slightly embarrassed for letting his feelings show.

'But, I saw you fall. You were broken. I _saw_ you die!' John attempted to withhold his anger. 'You were down there, with a bashed in head. It was definitely you.'

'John, I-,'Sherlock Holmes faltered, surveying his friend. He had been looking out for John every second of every day for the past three years, making sure no harm came to him. He'd been so close, yet so far. He had watched helplessly as his best friend slowly but surely sank into the dark depths of depression and mourning. He knew a day like this would come, but he'd hoped he wouldn't be too late. 'John. I couldn't let you know I was alive.'

John stood there, quite obviously completely torn up inside from anger, grief and happiness.

'I had to die, for you to live John. For you to be safe, I had to leave,' Sherlock said. John was stood there, staring. Sherlock inwardly braced himself for another clouting, but much to his surprise, John's lined face broke into a smile and the army doctor launched himself at his friend, curling his arms around the thin bodice of the detective. At first Sherlock was perplexed and didn't know quite what to do; then he brought his arms around John's neck and held him tightly.

'I missed you Sherlock,' John mumbled into the blue scarf, that he remembered as well as the person who wore it.  
Sherlock's mouth lifted into a grin, and Sherlock murmured in reply,' I missed my blogger.'

And seemingly quite involuntarily, the consulting detective pressed his lips upon the head of his friend, closing his eyes in contentment as he did so. John looked up and gazed into the eyes of his consulting detective. John smiled and tenderly caressed Sherlock's sculpted face.  
'Dinner?'

* * *

_So, hi. My first Johnlock fic, and the idea has probably been written many times before, but I wanted to try it and I know it's short but I was just in the mood to write and publish a short Johnlock fic. So I hope you like it, and please review! _

_Thanks for reading.  
{Can't wait for series three!} _


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